If I Could Do it All Again

If I could do it all again, I’m sure I would take better notes- a diary perhaps of what it felt like to be a kid- of what my soul used to sing about. How friendship felt and growing pains and what on earth I was curious about? What were my fears and doubts and how did it feel to be fifth of six? Did my grandmother talk to me about important things? Did I listen for birds? Did poetry tickle my fancy? Did my mom help me with homework? Canoe adventures in the bay, camping in the dark woods, how did life feel day to day.

If I could do it all again, I’m sure I would take better notes -and photographs I think of all the things I loved – the forts we built in a pricker bush, the paint peeling from our Grumman canoe, the way my mother’s chocolate-chip cookies looked on a warm tray from the oven. I’d take a photo of my dad in his brown felt feathered hat, his plaid cotton shirt and workpants or maybe in his waders while he was clamming or scalloping or fishing off of Montauk. I’d take a picture of our almond trees in bloom welcoming me home when I drove down our driveway, and the asparagus patch. I’d take a selfie of my friend and I digging mussels out on the cold muddy bogs.

If I could do it all again, I’m sure I would take better notes and try to capture all of the images of the big red tree we used to climb, the copper beech standing for generations of family climbers. I’d want to see it all again but more importantly I want to feel it all again, feel what I used to feel before my head was filled with facts and formulas. What did my spirit long for before report cards and fitness tests, before competition and compulsory education, before instruction on what to believe - when we all hopped on the conveyor belt of shoulds and shouldn’ts, coulds and couldn’ts, dos and don’ts. At first what did our empty hearts hold? How were they formed or molded or swayed? How did we become who and how we are?

If I could do it all again, I would practice the piano. I’d learn another language. I’d know that fitting in wasn’t all that important and doesn’t last long. I’d read more classics and write more poetry, go on more adventures and not let fear be my guide. I’d know that learning was for my own good and wasn’t just something I had get through in order to graduate. It seemed that passing and getting good grades were our goals rather than growing in knowledge, enriching our lives, and widening our potential. I’d pay more attention, I’d try harder, I’d have a plan as to what I wanted in life and I’d try to stick to it.

As I sign up for Medicare and receive AARP notices in my mailbox, I gather all of the pieces and reflect on the journey. What were my motivators? Was I taught to dream big or did we all just endure? I find myself broom cleaning the past and questioning the future.

‘Life is short’ seems to be in my daily inbox. If I could do it all again, I’m sure I would take better notes.